Cabbage Whites



I believed your white butterflies
were as common as cabbages
and that’s how they were named.
Now you tell me that they
lay eggs on cabbage leaves, munch away.

I’d never understood your budlea bushes –
not pretty, like second-rate lilac,
too late for Easter, too mauvey for me.
Now a bush leans over the patio
where Cabbage Whites gather
and fling themselves around.
You are ready to teach another lesson,
go inside for your book.
Then show me sub-categories:
Green-veined White and Black-edged White.
Beautiful drawings on pages
separated by fine, thin paper,
which I reach out to touch.

My mind nicely wanders and I tell you
about my posh friend in Chelsea.
In the days of greengrocers, she recognised
Frances Bacon on King’s Road,
fingering cabbages. You don’t say anything,
but the way your eyes turn light grey
tells me that you’re becoming used to this
errant part of me, with my far-flung tangents
and unlikely connections.

And the beauty of it is here on this patio.
On this summer day: No one is wrong here.
We are both right.

Candyce Lange

If you have any thoughts about this poem, Candyce Lange would be pleased to hear them